


The tale of Valjean's Loaf

by annabarenina



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century, 19th century breadmaking, Bread, Character Study, Communism, Crack, Fire, Food, Minor Violence, Other, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabarenina/pseuds/annabarenina
Summary: Bonjour, it is I, Monsieur Pain.I was born into the world on a Sunday afternoon in Faverolles at the hands of Monsieur Isabeau. He was a rough man, and my creation was a painful one. From the first, I never felt a gentle touch...





	The tale of Valjean's Loaf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enthugger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/gifts).



I was born into the world on a Sunday afternoon in Faverolles at the hands of Monsieur Isabeau. He was a rough man, and my creation was a painful one. From the first, I never felt a gentle touch. 

I was part of a large batch, and I, the first to be formed. Each of my siblings were uglier and more misshapen than the last. Black, burnt, illegitimate children of rye and sawdust. 

By fortune of being the first, I was the best: the plumpest, the softest, the purest. Considering my origins, my exterior was surprisingly attractive. My crust was thick enough to keep my insides supple and warm, yet thin enough to penetrate with just the right amount of resistance. My outer colouring was that of fresh coffee, my inner a dusky taupe. I was surprisingly light for one born of my time. Springy, where my brothers and sisters were dense as stones. 

I was separated from my family when I was still an inchoate lump of a dough. Before I was separated from my family, I was beaten. We were all beaten. We were beaten and violently wrought by the hirsute knuckles of a man who delighted in the aggression of his fists on our flesh. It is a terrible way to come into existence, to form bonds with family, to experience such pain, and then to be crudely ripped away from those you hold dearest. 

After we were beaten – after we were separated – we thought the worst was over. We were left to recover in the sunlight by the window. I waited by that window for what seemed an age – unable to speak for lack of such apparatus, unable to commiserate with my yeasty comrades. As I waited, inexplicably (or so it seemed to me), I grew. I barely noticed at first, but when I felt the cool pressure of glass on my skin I realised I had been expanding. 

Shortly after this, my whole body was gently lifted, and I was shifted to a different position, away from the window. On and on this process went, and I thought that perhaps this was all my life might be – and pleasant enough it was – to bathe in sunlight with my family, moved exactly when the heat began to get uncomfortable. Alas, such optimism was sorely misplaced as we were all about to discover – for though it seemed like I was being gently moved around once again, instead I found myself on a cold, metal surface, alone. From here, I was lifted and thrust into the glowing embers of a burning kiln and if I could have screamed, the clouds would have wept for me. 

The burning sensation on my crust was torturous. It seemed to last an age, although I could tell upon my return to the window that the sun had barely moved. One by one my siblings were subjected to the same process, more fire, more wood, more agony. It is clear to me that there is no coincidence in the French referring to bread as “pain.” 

When the last of us had been removed from our would-be incinerator, I was prepared for the next round of cruelty. I waited for Monsieur Isabeau to turn his attention back to me, and he did. He lifted me, inspected my every inch and forcefully pressed and poked me. I imagined the worst in that moment, but to my surprise I was placed back on the counter, with only a small satisfied grunt from Isabeau to acknowledge that he’d noticed me at all. 

Once again, he did the same to my brothers and sisters, some awarded similar grunts of contentment, others cursed at and placed towards the back. Then, in a blur of motion, we were swiftly and carefully made to sit atop one another, with myself at the peak of what must have been a pyramid of bready citizens. 

And there we sat for an eternity. The sun began to set, and I as I watched it disappear behind the house across the street, I contemplated my miserable existence. I knew that my position was most fortunate of my companions, as I was not made uncomfortable by the presence of dense bodies atop mine. Nevertheless, I was forlorn. Was this all I was to know? 

An age passed, or so it seemed, until Monsieur Isabeau and his wife came back and glanced at us once again. I tensed in preparation for a new round of persecution, but for the second time nothing dramatic happened. Madame Isabeau simply nodded at her husband, both dressed in looser garments than we had previously seen and they headed off down a corridor to a distant place. I would have sighed with relief at their retreating figures if I had had the chance but all of a sudden there was a violent crash from behind me and glass flying everywhere. 

Before I could react, I was gone. A new, larger, rougher hand had grasped me, and I could feel the wind flying past as I tried to take in all the scenery that blurred by. What was happening? Where was I going? I tried to focus on the hand that held me but the motion and the speed at which they moved made it impossible to determine anything other than movement and darkness. 

A shout echoed from what I thought must have been somewhere behind me, and my captor began to move faster in response. I was swinging wildly as their fingers dug into my body, almost piercing my dense crust. As we moved through the darkness, distorted lights tore through my vision and warm water glanced off my form. We turned sharply, and more shouts reverberated around us, footsteps thudding in the distance. Whomever my breadnapper was, he knew these streets well. He veered this way and that, taking so many sudden turns I thought I might get dizzy. I certainly had no notion of where we might be (never mind that I had never left the residence of Monsieur Isabeau prior to this exciting event). 

The shouting faded slowly, and it seemed we had lost our pursuers so my abductor slowed down. As he came to a gentle job I was able to gauge more about him. He was a young man, probably mid-twenties, and he was very broad and tall. Nothing particularly interesting to look at, really, but for his hulking physique. Long, greasy hair; taut, desperation around his eyes and a tight line for a mouth. As I was examining this man, I realised that what I had thought was rain was in fact his blood, which was pouring from a gash in his muscled forearm. How he had such a wound and still managed to hold me with such firmness, I do not know. 

Suddenly, there was shouting again from ahead and behind, so the young man picked up speed once more, but he was beginning to gasp for breath. He was not prepared for such a chase. He ran with me to the left, down a narrow alley which had a terrible odour like the mix of sewage and mud. He skidded to a halt at the end of this alley and everything changed again. 

This time it was like I was truly flying. Nothing held me down as I spun through the air, and in those brief moments I felt as blissful and free as I had ever felt. I could see the stars in their multitudes watching my journey from above. Wind whipped around me, tearing small crumbs off my outer layer, particularly where he had pressed into me. It was liberating. It was beautiful. I knew in that moment, as I observed the countryside in the starlight, how lucky I was to be born and bred into the wonderful nation of France. 

My reverie was brought to an abrupt end as I landed with a thud on what appeared to be dense foliage. I attempted to regain my senses as leaves and thorns prodded my now battered frame, and I watched Monsieur Isabeau apprehend the robust man who released me from my windowed prison. 

“Jean Valjean!” Isabeau cried, “you robbed my house!” 

Valjean stopped and turned to look at Isabeau. “Monsieur Isabeau, please, my sister’s children…” 

“Enough!” The spiteful baker cut him off. “The magistrate will be pleased to finally get a poacher such as you,” he spat. 

“No!” Valjean protested “It was just a window pane, a loaf of bread… 

I did not hear the rest as yet another hand whisked me away from my hiding place. A smaller hand than I had previously known, but a sure one. The face of the boy holding me now was severe and cold. He had long dark hair brushed back into a tight ponytail creating a pinched look around his scalp that only exaggerated his broad, slightly flat nose – the youth was almost terrifying to behold. And terrified I was, as he inspected me thoroughly, tutting at the specks on blood that dotted my body now. He picked away at these parts and harrumphed to himself with satisfaction. He tucked me away into a cloth bag and that was the last I saw of Faverolles.

**Author's Note:**

> An in depth character study of my favorite Les Miserables character and a gift to my dear friend and comrade, [enthugger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger) . Please leave kudos and comments. If anyone wants to have discourse about The Bread, please do so below! Happy Barricade Day, citizens!


End file.
